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THE AIR IS ALIVE
The air is alive with news of you today.
I know, I was to meet you at the old
Venus café, next to the Shriner’s lodge,
in the shabby center of Sebastopol.
But there have been birthdays, and eighteen long stem roses
died in my arms, and my lost shepherd herded
twelve and a half soccer players and their ball.
No wool was shorn, and not a goal was scored,
and I’m running out of excuses once again.
We’re on and off, like the clapper, like a bra.
My heart is heavy as your letter press,
and my fingers are stained. I want to love you
deaf, or blind, and anything but sane,
while trees and dollars wither in the drought,
while unpicked almonds roast in their narrow shells.
And I would have visited you in the asylum, but I
was not yet a thought, much less an arm, much less
this woman disarmed by your unending song.
Price: Contact Artist
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